by Watson Davis
I finished the last bit of that piece of rabbit, no longer even tasting it, no matter how scrumptious it was. The way I chewed it and swallowed it, the meat could have been anything.
They don’t know.
I snatched my empty pot, grabbed the last piece of meat from above the last dying embers of the fire and stood. I kicked the flame to death just to be sure.
Fine. I’ll just sneak down there and make sure everything hasn’t gone to hell. After all, if they get caught, they could put Silverhewer and Diyune on my trail, but if they’re fine and dandy with nice warm beds and hot food in their bellies, I’m leaving them there. I’m going on to Windhaven.
# # #
The archbishop lay on a cot in a tent erected by Silverhewer’s soldiers for the healers to tend the wounded, the tent appropriated by Fi Cheen for the highest ranking priests, a tent of suitable quality, the top rippling in the strong wind, a cold wind. The archbishop’s broad shoulders extended over the edge of the cot, his hands resting folded over his navel, his bloody and torn tunic removed and replaced by a clean, white linen smock. The tip of his tongue peeked out through his lips, his lips dry, crusted, his tongue pink, shiny, wet.
“I believe he’s waking,” Fi Cheen said to the healer on his right, one of the mid-level healers, a woman named Dayjro, a Tesoran far from her home.
She joined Fi Cheen at the archbishop’s side. His eyes opened. He gasped, squeezing his eyes shut again, his head lifting, a grimace on his lips, raising his hands to his head.
Dayjro reached out to the archbishop, closing her eyes, touching the end of her finger to his head, her finger glowing a light blue. “The concussion hasn’t completed healing.”
He brushed her hand away, his eyes opening into narrow slits. He pressed his fist against his temple.
Fi Cheen took Dayjro’s shoulders, easing her away from Diyune’s side, moving in to take her place.
“What happened?” Diyune asked, his voice a croak. He swallowed and licked his lips.
“My wights and I found you in the rubble,” Fi Cheen said, his voice silken, inclining his head toward the archbishop, pressing his left fist into his lower back, touching the onyx ring on his right forefinger to his forehead before straightening himself. “Some sort of enharmonic dissonance caused the sacrifice to misfire, creating an open rift between this realm and the Ba-ator, and interrupting the altar room’s reintegration with this reality. It’s leaking.”
The archbishop surveyed the tent with a baleful glare, the only other occupants a couple of high-ranking masters who’d not been as fortunate, and now lay with the sheets pulled up over their faces, their bodies emptied, their souls born away from this realm for judging, for the gods to weigh their hearts and deeds, and the assignment of their punishments and their rebirths.
“You should lie down, sir.” Dayjro stepped toward the archbishop, placing her palm on his chest. “You’ve taken a lot of abuse.”
He knocked her hand away, rising to a sitting position, dropping his legs over the side of the cot, balancing himself with care, his body jerking. He grabbed the cot’s frame with his hands, leaning over, staring down at the rugs brought in by slaves at Fi Cheen’s command. Diyune gagged, his fist coming up to press against his stomach.
“Really, Archbishop,” Dayjro said. “You need to take rest. You are lucky to be alive.”
“That is debatable.” He slipped off the cot to stand on unsteady legs. He stared down, spreading his arms wide, studying his simple clothes. “Where am I?”
“You are in the camp.” Dayjro gulped, bowing her head, glancing back at Fi Cheen as though he would help her in some way. She raised her palms toward the archbishop, wanting to push him back on the cot, but afraid to touch him.
Fi Cheen touched the knuckle of his forefinger to his lips, hiding the ghost of a smile on his lips. She is not without forethought.
“Camp?” The archbishop’s brow furrowed, his gaze sliding from her to Fi Cheen. “I recall no camp.”
“Silverhewer’s men—” Fi Cheen began to say, but the tent flap whipped back, revealing a hint of the blue sky beyond, allowing a twisting eddy of wind to burst in, the grotesque head of General Silverhewer inserting itself, blocking out the view of the sky, and most of the wind.
“Got word you’d finally roused,” she said, her voice a mixture of gravel and sand. “You owe me for this, sugar britches.”
“I owe you?” The archbishop staggered forward, grabbing his hip with one hand, his other hand shooting out for something to steady him.
Fi Cheen caught the archbishop’s hand, grasping the man’s elbow with his other hand to support him.
“I owe you?” the archbishop repeated. “That would surely be the first time.”
“I’ve lost fifteen good men so far—so far—cleaning up your mess.” The ground shook as she slammed her fist on the ground outside, the tent shaking, threatening to collapse.
Hand rising to massage his temple, the archbishop took a long, slow, deep breath, glancing sidelong at Fi Cheen, glaring back up at Silverhewer. “I fear you’ve accosted me before I could gather up all my lieutenants and masters and be apprised of current circumstances.”
“Well, let me fill you in.” Silverhewer smiled, batting her gray eyes like a pretty lass might to her lover, the effect frightening on her brutish face. “The parts of your precious damned monastery that ain’t burned down have mostly caved in. You’ve got demons and devils crawling all around the complex with an unholy host concentrating right there in the middle of your central courtyard. Me and mine, we’ve been fighting the damned things all night.” She snarled, her eyes fierce and bloodthirsty, the corners of her nostrils twitching.
The archbishop lurched forward, and releasing his arm, Fi Cheen edged back, away from Silverhewer, being more than happy to allow the archbishop to converse with her alone.
The archbishop hesitated, his fingers tracing a spell, the air sparkling and shimmering in the wake of his hand. He shook his head, and limped over to one of the cots, pulling back the linen covering the face, exposing Noami Eshon’s face, lifeless, her skin graying, orange sores of a pestilence pox rising on her once perfect features.
The archbishop exhaled, shutting his eyes, bowing his head over her.
“You’ve got to make this right, human,” Silverhewer said, a gray-toothed smile expanding on her face, a lecherous, greedy smile. “You’re going to summon me lots more troops, some more Alyak armor, and money.” She nodded. “I’m going to need lots of gold to buy my silence.”
The archbishop spun, leaning against Noami’s cot for balance, glaring at Fi Cheen, his fist on his chest. “Where is the Amulet of Meyola?”
“I…” Fi Cheen shook his head. “What?”
“When you found me—” the archbishop began to say.
“What are you putting in your report?” Silverhewer asked, breaking in.
The archbishop grimaced, glaring back at Silverhewer, his fist tightening, dangerous magic swirling about him, the magic growing so thick Fi Cheen’s hair stood on end, goosebumps rising on his skin. The archbishop said, “What do you mean to say, General?”
Silverhewer shrugged, grinning. “I’m merely suggesting that for a few paltry supplies, a few paltry troops, for a few thousand paltry gold godlings, my version of what happened here tonight could match your own version, whatever that might be, within the bounds of taste.”
The archbishop pointed at Silverhewer. “I will deal with you later. You are dismissed.”
The grin faded from Silverhewer’s face.
The archbishop lunged toward Fi Cheen, grabbing the overseer’s upper arms, their noses colliding. “You found me, yes?”
Fi Cheen nodded.
“Was the amulet with me?”
“Well.” Fi Cheen straightened, blinking his eyes, trying to picture the scene. “The ruins of the altar were dark. I concentrated on getting you out without allowing you to be killed. I didn’t search the surrounding area. I didn’t have time
.”
“And the sacrifices? Were they there? Their corpses?”
Fi Cheen shook his head. “I saw no other remains except for the bits and pieces the devils had shredded. They could have been there, but in no state for me to recognize.”
“Fools,” the archbishop said, shoving Fi Cheen away. The archbishop moved his hands, his hands spasming into claw-like things. He turned his face to the sky, and the top of the tent ripped apart, the whole tent crumbling in the winds. He flew into the air, rising up almost faster than Fi Cheen could see, shooting like a cannonball out of the camp, his flight arching toward the monastery.
Silverhewer sighed, pushing herself to her feet. “Ah, well. Perhaps it’s time for a new archbishop.”
Yes. Perhaps, it is.
# # #
“I’m not so sure about this.” Cole held back at the edge of the road, remaining in the shadows of the thick trees, eyes darting this way, that way, searching for enemies behind every tree trunk, under every bush, in every shadow. “We should remove these collars, grab some horses, and head for Morrin. At least, let me come with you.”
“I won’t stop you,” Aissal said, her hand rubbing Rucker’s shoulders. “If you feel you must come with us, I won’t stop you, but your presence, an older male presence, might complicate discussions. A young woman and a boy? We won’t threaten anyone. They’ll talk to us, take us in. Once they do, we will return for you.”
“Mm-hmm.” Cole nodded his head, fists on his hips, pursing his lips, staring down at the grass, leaves, and twigs beneath his feet, kicking them. “If you’re sure, I won’t stand in your way. Do what you think is best.”
“Thank you for being understanding.” Aissal smiled, waving at Cole, guiding Rucker to the imperial stone road cutting straight through the last bit of the forest before opening up on the fields surrounding the town.
The pair, Aissal and Rucker, skipped down the empty road, joking and giggling, the sun rising up in the sky, heating them up to a sweat despite the chill in the air, chatting, brushing flies and mosquitoes away, all the way to the town, a couple of horses and a donkey keeping watch on them from the fields.
The town clattered with life, hooves and wagon wheels on the stone-paved street, horse-drawn carts piled high with sacks of flour and spices before a grocer’s shop, smoke rising up from the chimneys. Men, women, and children hurried, rushing along on the wood plank sidewalks before the wood plank buildings, crossing the street between the horses and the wagons, their heads down as though lost in thought.
“This seems a nice little town,” Aissal said, squeezing Rucker’s shoulder. They walked up the wooden stairs to one of the sidewalks, the boards bending below their feet, creaking with each step.
A modestly dressed woman stepped out from the second door along the sidewalk, the hard soles of her shoes clacking on the boards. She held the door open, her dress several layers of thick cotton, each layer either dark or drab or both, her skin a pasty pale, her brown hair hanging in limp, greasy curls. Two burly men wrestled a barrel out the door, one holding each end, grunting and sweating.
“Ma’am?” Aissal rose up on her tiptoes, waving her right hand, peering up over the barrel, trying to get the woman’s attention. “Excuse me, but this boy and I are hungry.”
The men crossed in front of Aissal, between her and the woman, the woman’s eyes darting to Aissal. The woman stood at the door, her hand on the handle, her head swiveling to watch the men pass, the men staggering down the steps under the weight of the barrel.
Head bobbing, Aissal minced forward, her hands together, palm to palm, almost in prayer. “Is there anywhere we might get some food, a place to stay?”
The woman’s lips tightening, growing thinner, eyes narrowing, nostrils flaring, she said, “Martee? This slave is talking to me?”
One of the men’s hands, his fingers rough with callous, and bound in filthy cloth, wrapped around Aissal’s upper arms. He lifted her into the air, his rough voice saying, “Got a priest collar on her. Prolly run away.”
Aissal squealed, twisting around, and kicked the man in the gonads, using her knowledge of human anatomy to strike a particularly delicate area, screaming, “Run!”
Rucker peeled off, dodging around the woman’s half-hearted attempt to snag his arm.
The man let Aissal loose, hunkering down with his knees together, his hands over his crotch. Aissal dropped to the ground, swatting the woman’s hands away. Aissal rushed after Rucker, noting the alley he’d turned down.
“Hold on, now.” The other man, who had put the barrel into the wagon, climbed into the bench at the front of the wagon and whistled, snapping the reins of the two horses yoked to the front. The wagon drove forward, the wheels protesting, rolling over the stones of the street with an odd beat, picking up speed with the clip-clop of the horse’s hooves as it pulled into the street.
Aissal turned down the alley Rucker had taken, jumping from the wooden sidewalk. The man in the wagon pulled at his reins, screaming for his horses to stop, the alley too narrow for him to follow, the turn too sharp, yelling for someone to chase Aissal.
She ran, taking random turns, looking for some trace of Rucker, listening for the sounds of pursuit, sneaking between buildings, under buildings.
In one window, a man wearing a leather apron and dark-lensed goggles poured liquid wax, glowing with its heat, into molds. A woman sat at a table at the window where Aissal peeked in, the woman cut off lengths of string with a short knife, her actions quick and sure, setting the lengths aside in bunches. The woman’s eyes rose following Aissal, a crease forming between her bushy eyebrows, but Aissal ran on, heart pounding.
She stopped to rest in an empty alley between buildings, beside an open door. She peered inside.
A cobbler sat at his workbench, a table filling one wall of the room with several other boots and shoes, all of them fine, expensive, the shoes of lords and ladies, of the rich, the famous. He hunched on his stool, his toes resting on the crossbars connecting the stool’s splayed legs, his own shoes tattered and worn, the seams unraveling, the sole worn thin.
A slave boy of about fifteen years of age huddled behind the cobbler on his own little stool, with brown hair, green eyes, and pale skin like Rucker’s, a collar around his neck, smaller and thinner than the one around Aissal’s. He bent over a boot, buffing it with the rag in his hand, balancing another rag on his knee.
The slave boy looked up, his buffing arm stopping its motion. He stared at Aissal, squinting. His eyes grew wide and round. He jumped up from the chair, dropping his rags, but keeping his grip on the boot. He pointed toward the door, right at Aissal. “Master! There’s a ghost at the door, a blue ghost.”
She jerked back, pressing her back against the wall, deciding which way to run, peeking in to see if the cobbler was coming for her.
“All the gods damn it, Standon.” The cobbler straightened up, slamming his hammer on the workbench. “There’s nothing to be scared of, no ghosts, no ghouls, no gremlins, nothing to worry about. Just go, close the door, and get your skinny ass back to work.” He leaned back over the shoe he was working on, picking up his hammer.
The boy pressed himself into the corner, his emaciated arms wrapped around the boot. “I ain’t going to the door. She’ll get me. She’ll eat me up. Looks like a river ghost, blue from being drowned in the water.”
The cobbler sighed and sprang from the chair, shaking his head, an ugly expression transfiguring his rough and unattractive face into something hideous. “I don’t have time for your bullshit, boy.”
“I’m sorry,” the boy wailed. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
The door slammed shut, Aissal standing beside the door, staring at it, barely daring to breathe, her fists in front of her mouth, her mouth open to scream but silent. Inside, the boy wailed, begging for forgiveness, Aissal wincing at each wet thump as the boy was whipped, tears overflowing in her eyes, blurring her vision. She spun away, sobbing, and staggered down the alley.
&
nbsp; “Aissal?” Rucker stood across the street, beckoning her to join him in the shadows, cradling something in his arm. “I’m over here!”
Aissal sprinted across the street, head down, checking from side to side, not knowing if she should fall on her knees and throw up, or whether to dance for joy so she cried, wrapping her arms around him, burying his face in the crook of her neck, not worrying at the sticky goo she was getting on herself. “I thought I’d lost you. Don’t ever do that again.”
“I grabbed a pie out of a window,” he said, pushing her away, offering her a bite. “It is so good. You have to try it.”
“Stealing is wrong.” She grabbed his shoulders, shaking him, kneeling down so her eyes were on the same level as his. “Do not steal.”
“But I’m hungry.” His face twisted, body slumping, eyes rolling. “They’ve got food. I’d pay them for it if I could, but I can’t.”
“It is wrong.”
“It’s food,” he said, as though that decided the matter. “Come on, have a bite. You’ll see. It’s so good.”
“We can’t just take things from people, Rucker.” She dropped to her knees, her hands on either side of his face, holding him still though he squirmed to get away. “They’re working hard to create this pie and this cake. If we eat it, they can’t sell it. All their time will be for naught.”
“It won’t be for naught.” Rucker pushed her hands away, twisting out of her grip. “It will be in my belly, making me feel good.”
A cold voice, hoarse, without a scrap of forgiveness said, “Trying to teach the damned the difference between right and wrong is a waste of breath.”
Aissal sprang to her feet, wincing, her hand going to her hip, whirling to her left, to the person speaking. A priest stood before her, his thinning gray hair combed back from his long, thin face, a frown on his lips, his hands clasped before him. His black and red robes hung limp against his skeletal body.